


NoT eVWeN a (MoThErFuCkIn) ThInG

by EldritchCuddles



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Sgrub Session, Blood, Bulges & nooks, Casual Sex, Enthusiastic Consent, Gift Fic, Knotting, Light BDSM, Light Bondage, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Spanking, Tentabulges (Homestuck), Xeno, contemporaneous ancestors & descendents, it's beginning to look a lot like fishmen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-11
Updated: 2019-08-11
Packaged: 2020-08-19 00:04:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20200402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EldritchCuddles/pseuds/EldritchCuddles
Summary: ==> Orphaner Dualscar: Be the hottest man on the sea“You make a habit a propositionin visitin royalty, or were my stunnin good looks just too much for you?"  You’re getting propositioned by a clown. You still can’t decide if you’re more offended, amused, or just plain baffled.(Your name is Orphaner Dualscar, and what the fuck.)





	NoT eVWeN a (MoThErFuCkIn) ThInG

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fox_Salz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fox_Salz/gifts).

> Fill for this prompt:  
The theme here is Dualscar, hottest man on the sea. I'm giving several different options, a bit of variety, choose any or all of them, I just want this sexy fish man to have a good time.  
Sollux wants to piss off his kismesis by fucking his ancestor who turns out to be a real handful of a guy. Eridan is just enamored by Dualscar and wants to learn how to be as cool as him. Cronus wants experience from a hotter more adult version of himself. Gamzee maybe wants to piss off his ancestor by pailing Dual, maybe some minor and consensual chucklevoodoos are involved. Nepeta, idk, fierce huntress wants a challenging partner.  
BDSM is great, discipline and spanking, whoever you choose just having a great consensual time. Bulges and nooks please. No scat or watersports.
> 
> This was a fun prompt- hope you enjoy! :D

“It don’t even gotta be a thing, motherfucker,” the clown cultist says to you, keeping pace with you without any seemin effort as you try to stalk off from the Grand Highblood’s audience hall. You tried outpacing him when you saw him comin, took a turn down an empty walkway and everythin, and he’s just kept driftin along in your wake talkin at you anyhow (except you don’t look away from flotsam caught in your wake and then find it’s closer than when you last looked, and isn’t _ that _a hell of a thing in this funhive maze of culler clowns.) 

You give up tryin to ditch him and slacken your pace (he matches you without the slightest semblance of noticin that you’d been trying to outpace him and now you’ve stopped), and you half-turn to look him over with no attempt at hiding your completely reasonable skepticism. He’s all big earnest purple eyes that you think are tryin to cover for a certain sullenness a disposition, somethin that you, a seasoned <strike>sulker</strike> courtier yourself, and one in regular attendance to the Empress at that, could hardly miss.

You put your fins back at their most forbidding angle (which you know is a damn fine effect, you spent too much time practicin in the mirror as a wiggler not to have the gesture down solid now), and look down at the clown with the sheer gall to approach you after the humiliatin fuckin disaster of an audience you just had. It’s not so long a look down for you, you realize, even with you drawn up to your full imposin height, and the clown- Gamzee, he called himself?- just stands there placid as can be, for the which you’ll give him a bit a grudging credit. It’s not every night you run into a troll what can weather your stare without a flinch, sure enough.

“So motherfucker, where’s your pleasure all up and at on this fine as bitchtits morn?” he asks, bending back just a bit so as to look you in the face. You don’t answer right away, which means you catch his eyes flickerin down to your pectorals and just sorta… getting stuck there. You’re not a fuckin wiggler, so your fins do _ not _ flutter at the appreciation, but you might haveta focus on keepin it that way more than you expected. You do maybe let yourself crack a bit of a smile. It’s not like he’ll see it with his oglespheres occupied a bit further south than your face at present, anyway.

You _ were _ gonna say something cutting about the gall of him just traipsin up to you like this, but just then it strikes you that it might be funnier if you just… flex a bit…

And yep, the one bit of ear that you can see poking out of that horrorterror tangle on his head is turning a little purple and he’s staring like your thoracic musculature holds the secrets of the depths in them. That’s really kinda fuckin cute. You speak and he startles a little, his roving eyes jumping back up to your face with what looks like some serious effort. Even then, he doesn’t manage to stop himself from giving an admiring glance to the scars that earned you your title. They’re impressive; you know what to look for when somebody’s checkin em out. “You make a habit a propositionin visitin royalty, or were my stunnin good looks just too much for you?”

You’re getting propositioned by a clown. You still can’t decide if you’re more offended, amused, or just plain baffled.

He blinks at you. “Can’t be calling at something as habitual if I ain’t ever got my doing on at it before, but this got its seeming like at to being a good time for it, what with the festivities all up and coming and a fine-ass motherfucker like yourself here all special and all.”

Ugh. You don’t know what kinda parties the Grand Highblood throws with his panaddled faithful, and you’ve got less than no interest in finding out. Give you a nice dockside tavern brawl any night you feel like roistering, instead. 

...You could possibly see your way into bein a bit charmed all the same, though. You spend too much time around trolls that can’t bring themselves to part with a single clear fuckin statement where a few decades of petty scheming and intrigue will do, and some open communication, especially centered around how glubbin sexy you are, was refreshin to say the least.

That said, you didn’t live to be a fine specimen of trollhood in the prime of your sweeps by being a trusting sort. “Ok, pupa, start by explaining what your festivities have to do with me in particular instead of you just celebratin with the old man and the rest of your crew, and then we’ll see about you getting more _ familiar.” _You are not taking part in any fucking clown parties. (Your dignity won’t survive another encounter with the head murderclown himself so soon.) And the drinks will be glubbin unbearable besides.

He hunches his shoulders, fronds stuffed deep in the pockets of his oversized pants, and grumbles a little. “‘S’just all manner of devotions and hilarity riotous and righteous, brother,” he tells you like you got any reason to know what he’s talking about. “Kin get themselves partaken of the wicked elixir and follow harshwhimsies to pail or pain or paints, and just get up to making all holy motherfucking ruckus as is the thing as should be this time of sweep.”

You nod like you understand. You think you actually understand less than you did before, but you can fake it with the best of them. In point of fact when it comes to faking shit, sweeps of experience in the most demandin of environments has made you simply the best there is.

“And where do I come into this?” you prompt. You aim for lordly disdain and toss in, “Dunno if you heard, but the Grand Highblood ain’t exactly inclined to host the naval aristocracy if he can help it, and I’ve got less than no interest in partying it up anywhere that bubbly shit is the drink of choice.” You _ can _preen a little at the fact that your orders are comin down from on high so as even that Faygo-swilling bonehead up on his big ugly chair knows he can’t fuss too much if you did decide to push the issue and show up at this party, but there’s flaunting your relative diplomatic immunity and then there’s beggin to be turned into another smear on his wall, and you ain’t keen on the latter.

Gamzee’s eyes flick down your body again and he licks his lips all nervous-like before he tries to answer you, and on the first try his voice comes out in a squawk that you don’t even try to not laugh at.

On his second try he manages to get out, “I was thinkin at getting my celebrate in on some more clandestine whereabouts first, is all the happenin that you’d be comin in at. No one’s makin you be nowhere or imbibe nothing you ain’t desirous of getting yourself down with.” He’s still tense after that, shoulders hunched in. You can’t see through his facepaint but you’re sure as tides that he’s blushing up a storm under there as he pipes up again, a touch of a growl underlaying his voice now.

Aha, there’s that sullenness you spotted earlier, you glubbin called it. Nothin gets past the keen gaze of Orphaner fuckin Dualscar, and that’s the damn truth. “Ain’t no motherfucker as can tell me who’s fit for me to lay fronds on if the other motherfucker’s got a willingness for me, is all, and a frond’d be all up in the bitchtits to get its lay on at you.”

It takes you a minute to work through the knots he tied your theoretically shared language up in, intricate as any sailor’s but with less than half the sense to them. You’re pretty sure that last bit was a compliment, though, and you’re always game for some flattery tossed your way, deservin and underappreciated as you are. The other half of your mind is stuck on how the chords rumbling threat in his voice ping at somethin in your horns and flicker on down the tines a your fins like he electrified you. You can feel your pusher speed up a touch, too, but you pay it no mind. “Somebody tried to warn you offa me?” you ask, fronting disinterest and distant amusement like a glubbin champion while you eye your wannabe fling.

You were just toying with the idea of indulging yourself for the hell of it before, but he’s all sharp angles and intensity right now where he was languid and loose as a basking shark not a minute before, and the switch, sudden as a bright season squall, sparks some real interest. You always had a certain aesthetic appreciation for dangerous things, and him lookin all half-feral and hopeful at you is one hell of a combination. The tension in the air makes your fins want to twitch and your horns hum with a sense like somethin huge risin from the depths beneath you. In a fine display of your typical good sense, it goes straight to your bulge.

In the middle of all of that sweet singing suspense he just goes loose again, shrugging lazily, and you narrow your eyes at him as that intriguing danger vibe he was givin off falls flat. He smiles back at you, but now that you know to look for it proper-like, there is just a touch too much dentition in it to be all simple empty-panned happiness like he’s been puttin on. All right, fine, he’s still got your attention. 

“Grand Highblood’s got a powerful dislike up in his spitegland for you, motherfucker,” he tells you, like you don’t already know.

If you were a less darin an audacious troll, you might take that tacit admission that the Grand Highblood has his eye on this one in particular, enough to notice him givin you less-than-subtle lustful stares when you weren’t lookin and warn him off a you, no doubt, as a good reason to tell him thanks but no thanks. _ Howvevwer, _you are the glubbin Orphaner Dualscar, and like hell are you lettin that jumped up sandsucker’s platonic hate deter you from getting laid, especially when one a his actual minions is all set to ignore whatever warnin he got about you.

Besides, you haven’t pailed anybody good and proper in too fuckin long, and it’s bad for your dignity and your wardrobe if you show yourself back to Her court too needy. You’d swear She can smell it on you and goes outta Her way to make you crazy for the sheer glubbin hell of it, if you could convince yourself that you occupied that much a place in the Empress’s thoughts that She’d single you out for the entertainin of Her capricious pleasures.

That thought chases a shudder rippling down your vertebral support column too sudden for you to disguise it.

“Uh, brother?”

You settle yourself and look him dead on, flaring your fins a touch and bracing one arm on the wall next to his head, looming just a bit. Yeah, you need a distraction, and since one’s on offer… He shifts a little and you press your advantage, putting him at the receiving end of one of your practiced razor-thin smiles, all suave and dangerous intrigue. “So, sugar,” you prompt, keeping your voice smooth and friendly-like, “Flush or pitch?”

That was supposed to set him back on his metaphorical heels a bit more, what with the sudden change in pace, but he brightens like you just told him its his wriggling day and rolls with it with enough ease that you have to award him another somewhat grudging point. You shoulda figured on that, with the way he was hauling back and forth on the tautlines of your conversation like he thinks he’s a fucking bright season blow.

“I’ve not got no particular design at either, brother,” he tells you. “If you’ve got your willing on, whatever leaning you’ve got in you’s all well by me.”

You raise your eyebrows at him at that, but for all that he’s grown, he’s had a good number fewer sweeps to grow into his adult height and he’s an eel-skinny little fucker to boot. If this turns out to be some convoluted clown prank you can take him, even if everybody in this cult is fucking crazy as their old man and fights like sunlit angels. “That’s right bold of you, _ brother. _ Let’s discuss that in more detail, shall we?”

You sweep on down the paint-spattered hallway, letting your cape billow dramatically after you. He’ll follow.

And follow he does, although he’s quieter than you’d have expected. You lead him back to your guest blocks rather than let him lead you anywhere in this echoing warren, and once you have the door shut behind you, you toss off your cape with a flourish, drop yourself into a plush chair and lounge. Loungin’ is one of your specialties, anyway, being as it is right and proper for royalty such as yourself to be able to do all manner of tasks while looking indolent and unruffled as you please.

He looks around at your block- looking for a place to sit, you figure- and you preempt him, slapping a hand on your thigh. “C’mere.”

His fins twitch wide, broadcasting surprised pleasure and… not really stopping. Glb’golyb’s endless maw but this guy is easy to read even with a glubbin mask painted on his face. It’s almost a little pitiful, how eager and excited he is. He plops right down on your lap, making himself so free as to lean in against the crook of your arm and drape his legs across yours. The solid warm weight plus his enthusiasm is nice, but you’re still curious about him. You raise your eyebrows at him, puttin on a little court disdain just to see how he takes it.

He looks up at you, looks around the block again, and then turns back to you with your face still all forbiddin and stern. “Heeyyyy motherfucker, we being to get our pail on all in this sitplane? Only there’s some other platforms in here as have more moving room, like.”

Amazin. You snort, and his eager grin doesn’t diminish a bit. “Okay, so you completely fuckin lack the concept a shame, got it,” you say, and he looks a touch puzzled at you.

“What’s a motherfucker got to be ashamed about? Just here to have a good time, same as you,” he points out, tone all reasonable.

You snicker some more and grab at one sitglobe where it’s hanging partway off your lap, making him squirm a little. “Fair enough,” you allow, and work your hand from there up the planes of his back, digging your digits into the soft spots in his shoulders in a one-handed massage. “So you got no preference for flush or pitch, huh? Can’t glubbin decide whether you want me or wanna beat me, fair enough, I strike plenty of trolls that way.”

He leans back into your hand and laughs easily, tilting his head sideways so as to get a look at you. It cants his neck just enough to put his little fake cervical gill slits in easy range of your teeth (or lips, or tongue), and you can’t decide whether you’re warmed by the trust in the gesture or indignant at the utter lack of wariness he’s displaying despite being right in your graspfronds, like you ain’t a threat worth payin any mind to.

Well hell, the vacillations are catching.

“Nah, motherfucker, just got a mind to appreciate you bein sweet as you please or showin off what kinda unholy ruckus the fishbitch’s own can be bringing up on the nutrition plateau, I ain’t particular.”

That stops you. It’s been a while since anybody had the sheer titanium-plated globes to call Her Imperious Condescension “the fishbitch” to your face, and he doesn’t even seem to think he’s fuckin overstepped. You need to correct that.

You slide your hand up swift and lock it around the back of his neck, letting the points of your claws prickle against his pretend gills and lean in close to snap out low and cold in your best captain’s voice, “Whether you’re angling pitch or not, guppy, you’re not gonna speak of the Condesce like that where I can fuckin hear you, clear?”

He lolls his head back on his neck with a grin, lettin his throat bare right under your eyes, and slathers his tongue wetly across your half-open lips. Disgusted shock and delighted outrage roar up inside you, stoked higher when you feel his hand close on your wrist just long enough for him to twist in your iron grip and come up free like you’re not worlds stronger than him, like he’s got no more bones than a jellyfish. He spins in your lap to straddle you, the dopey grin from earlier swallowed up by this smug, toothy snarl like he thinks he fuckin won somethin.

“Try and stop me, motherfucker mine,” he breathes at you, and his grin shades a touch vicious when your bulge gives a stir he had to have felt, sittin where he is.

You’re gonna show him up, of course, can’t let that shit stand, but your pounding pusher sure approves of his initiative. He lowers himself to rock over your sheath, suddenly tight and pulsing, and you hate him a bit in that moment, but your bulge most assuredly fuckin approves of that too.

All right, that’s enough, he’s scored enough points for now. You grab a fistful of wild hair and drag him close again to lay a proper kiss on him. He tries to slime you with his tongue again and you bite him hard enough that you taste brackish blood, scoring a startled noise that sounds like he tried to hiss and chirr at the same time. It’s the weirdest fuckin sound, and even weirder once you use your grip on his hair to drag him down sideways over your lap. He squirms and you grab his horn instead, tightening your grip enough that it creaks so he knows you mean business. You drop your other hand on his sitglobes in a proprietary fashion and he _ wiggles _at you, pushing up into your hand like he thinks he’s still gettin to call the shots here. 

“Impudent little fucker, ain’t you?” you drawl. 

He manages to turn his head just enough to look up at you out of the corner of his eye. “Gonna get some action on me over that, brother, or are you all talk?” 

You laugh, push his loose pants down enough to bare his ass to the air, and give him a solid swat. He jerks and your hand stings, and there’s a hungry tension in the air that wasn’t there when you were just trading barbs and bites. You hit him again, just one cheek and then the other, varying your pattern, enjoying the glow you’re beginning to raise in his exposed skin. He was warm in your lap before but he’s warmer now, and if the gasps are any sign he’s getting as much enjoyment outta his punishment as you are. 

Laying a deliberate strike across the backs of his thighs makes him jump and his core muscles tense tellingly enough that you’ll bet he’s dripping for you, and if that isn’t the best feeling, you don’t know what is. “I’m takin these,” you tell him, and you feel another spike of tension in the air as you drag his pants off of him, adrenaline suddenly humming in your veins as you pull him back upright in your lap and tug him into a toothy kiss, his blood mingling with yours on your lips. 

The sense of tingling menace grows stronger as he growls at you, his bulge half-unsheathed and painting lewd streaks across your shirt. Adrenaline’s singing in your earfins and you pull back to catch your breath. Gamzee is a sight, wrapped in your lap all tousled and sharp eyed and loose. Makes you think of a slitherbeast about to strike, and it is making your blood fair _ sing _. You shake him by your grip on his horn. “That pan-crawly skitterbeast shit, that’s you, isn’t it?”

He eyes you, mouth closed, and nods, the sense of lurking doom ratcheting up a few degrees.

You grin, adrenaline thrilling in your veins and dread in the pit of your stomach, and lean in close, all your teeth on display. “Keep doin it.”

He was never tense, exactly, but some of the about-to-strike looseness goes out of him and he closes the gap between you again, a growl of challenge rolling from his lips to yours as the hovering menace in the air gathers around you like a cloak. It’s gorgeous, and you snarl your satisfaction at him and get an answering trill. It’s almost cozy in a caliginous sorta way, you enjoying the sight of him all half-dressed and hazy-eyed on your lap with danger screamin at your senses from all sides. 

No sooner do you think that than the screaming along your spine goes from imminent danger to near swallowing you. You feel your fins flare before going defensively flat and you’ve got a real threat-rattle going in your thorax before you register the other sound besides you and your blood in your ears is him chuckling, the little glubbin shit. Fuck that. You seize him around the waist and throw him bodily across the room, springing up yourself just before he nips his gangly legs up and turns over in the air neat as an acrobatterer. He lands lightly and sways, but keeps his feet. You don’t waste any time on admirin that little maneuver, closing again and flattening him to the wall, biting your way down his throat. His blood tastes of salt but not quite right, and it’s one more thing to stoke your ire as you wrestle with him, catching his wrists in a quick flick that you’re damn proud of pulling off, and pinning them above his head.

The move gives you a beat of stillness while you look at each other, breathing each others’ air and threat-flaring fins into the lull. You’re close enough to kiss but hold back for the moment, appreciating the little calm where you’ve taken each other’s measure and are movin on to the next phase of your engagement. His pupils are blown huge and dark over kiss-swollen lips, smears of his paint around his mouth giving way to glimpses of skin, and you can see his pulse fluttering in his throat, his bulge painting purple streaks against his thighs. Roughed up and restrained looks beautiful on him and you let him know it, pleased thrumming threaded through your voice. “You look good like this, babe. Gonna wreck you so fucking good.” 

He draws in a shuddering breath and moans softly over the slick sounds of his bulge writhing against the outer ridges of his own nook. The view is fuckin incredible, his face going slack as you see him slowly unsheathing and his desperate bulge teasing at himself, with nowhere else to go. Gods, _ fuck _. You move back into his space, leaning your weight into the hand restraining his wrists and laughing at him as he snaps at you, chucklevoodoos like a knife in your back trying to drive you in where he can get his fangs into you properly. 

You’re close enough that you can feel the electricity of him in your fins when he makes his move- not to free his nubs, no, just to wrap his legs around the trim of your waist and cling like a barnacle. You can feel his nook right through your pants and the warmth of him grinding over the swollen throb of your sheath with the squirm of his bulge working deeper into him makes you unsheathe so fast that you aren’t sure if the noise you made was pleasure or pain. You shove him back against the wall, smiling at the sharp smack of his back against stone, and grind up against his nook, savoring the frustrated whimpers and twitches it draws out of him, and gritting your teeth against the pressure on your bulge, trapped and squirming inside your tight pants. 

“Eager li’l thing, arentcha?” you snarl, and he tightens his legs around you, arching back away from the wall so as to inscribe a curve that is positively obscene with his torso. He tries to use the leverage to tug his hands down in earnest, snarling defiance back at you.

“You remember how to do this outside of season, motherfucker?” he snaps, pitch resonance crackling under his voice as he struggles again. “Orphaner Dualscar letting forgetfulness get on with his pan, can’t be getting his figure on of pailing without culling forks to remind him what’s to be getting its happen on?”

You snort at the attempted barb and step in, back straight and absorbing the force of his thrashing until he is flattened against the wall again with nowhere to go (but through you), and he moans again, needy clicks breaking up the sound. “Or maybe I figure on takin my time with you, seein as there’s no rush and an impertinent grub up in my face over wantin to get pailed stupid.”

You trail a claw down the lean muscle ridges in his chest with your free hand while he growls at you and muse, “Maybe give you some marks to brag on to your mates at this party o’ yours.”

You expected some kinda reaction, but not for his growl to cut off into a gasp and a choked, “_Please _!”

Holy fuck, you can feel his bulge trying to burrow through your pants to get at you. Damn, you’re good.

You’re maybe a little evil too, because you act like you don’t notice and look at him under your eyelashes, controlling your voice to keep it cool, detached. “Probably piss your old man off, though.”

That proves too much for him- he opens his mouth in a full on, throat rattling snarl, flat rumblespheres vibrating with the bass as he lunges at you, snapping. You sway around his face, going instead to the lovely sweep of his neck down to his clavicular struts and _ bite. _He keens for you, pressing every inch of himself against you and squeezing his thighs so tight around your waist that you think he’s about to bisect you.

You pull your teeth out of his flesh and swipe your tongue over the wellings of blood, drawing a sigh out of him with chittering notes of pleasure carrying through it. You’re getting a bit tired of holding him up- even your arms can’t hold the weight of another full grown troll forever, even if he is a skinny thing- so you pull back enough to see his face, snarling a little against the aching throb of your nether bits.

His eyes had gone all lazy and heavy lidded, but as you watch he opens them up wider again, his gaze on you sharpening. “That works for you, doesn’t it, darlin?”

He _ rolls his eyes _at you, the insolent inbetweener, and you grab his horn, shaking his head a little with it and watching his eyes light up again. You nod to yourself. “All right, so you like a little rough handlin. Think you’d let me tie you down?”

He rolls his eyes again and you tighten your grip on his horn again until it creaks under the pressure, making him gasp and grind on you. “I expect an answer,” you snap, injecting a note of command back into your voice.

Gamzee groans, and his voice is throatier than you’d heard it before, his consonants soft around the edges like he’s a little drunk. Heh, you’ve done a number on him already, by the sound of it. “Motherfucker, you can tie me up down and sideways if you’ll stop _stopping _, shit’s intolerable.”

You snort and let go of his horn, flicking his fin to rekindle that threatening rattle in his thorax just before you step back and drop him. He lands like it’s nothing, even if he looks a little annoyed to be lookin up at you again. His fins are all snapped tight against his head, and that’s just glubbin precious. You act like you don’t notice, pulling your shirt over your head and slinging it over your shoulder as you saunter off to the pailing block, trying not to give away that your bulge is tyin itself in knots over the delay and your nook is drenched.

The guest blocks are simple for a guest of your stature, but they are fully equipped so as to not risk giving offense to She who sent you, and that’s all you really care about right now. Tossing your shirt to hang on a wall hook almost certainly not intended for that purpose, you half turn back to Gamzee as he steps in to you, twisting his hands in the waist of your impeccably tailored pants.

“These have gotta go,” he tells you, and you laugh outright at the gall he has to be orderin you for anythin.

You give him a leer that’s positively cheerful. “You first. Strip and go make yourself comfortable,” you tell him, and he’s too worked up to argue with you now, not when you’re so close to finally getting to wreck him.

He shrugs out of the long shirt decorated with his curling sign and drops it on the floor without an ounce of hesitation. He just stands there, all long graceful lines to match the elegant twists of his horns and purple smears down his thighs, and you feel your fins flutter with pleasure. He grins and echoes the involuntary gesture before climbing onto the platform and reclining provocatively, grinning at you as he trails his hand ostentatiously downward, grabbing his bulge and dragging it out of himself with a groan, squeezing down its length.

Holy fuck you can see his nook fluttering from here, he’s gonna kill you like this. Your clothes are gone and you’ve covered the distance between you in no time, crawling onto the platform and crushing your lips against his, groaning in satisfaction as your bulge finally gets to tangle with his, the sweet slick slide and pressure turning the inside of your head to static. Little bright points of pleasure spark through your pan following the line of stinging bites that Gamzee trails along your neck and you croon, rolling your hips against him in a motion older than the tides. You aren’t so far gone as to forget yourself entirely, though, and you bury your fingers in the thick chaos of his hair and pull, pointing one of your crueller smiles at his hazy-eyed face and the needy chirp of protest he makes at you when he realizes you’re not letting him up.

He figures out why you interrupted him from finishing the path he was tracing up your neck, his lips turning up to mirror the smile painted on his face as you press his wrists back into cuffs fixed to the frame of the concupiscent platform. The elastic tissue shifts to seal him firmly inside. 

He looks pleased enough, but some ghost of caution rears its head just long enough for you to ask, “You good?”

He grins and rocks his hips under yours, bulge swiping by the edge of your nook and drawing a strangled gasp out of you. “The very motherfucking best,” he tells you.

You’ve seen how he lights up every time you get your claws into him and you can’t let that smug look stand, so you take your claws and slice down his front from his clavicular struts down to his hipbones before getting a handful of his bulge. He jerks and _keens _for you as the shallow cuts begin to separate and spill beads of purple across his skin. His bulge is shuddering in your hand, you can feel the muscles in his thighs twitching under you as he pants and stares down at you with wild eyes, and it’s glubbin gorgeous and you feel like king of the world.

Now that you have him like this, you almost wish you had the patience to lord over him properly, but it’s takin the better part of your self control not to jump on his bulge and ride him like you stole him and the legislacerators are closin in as it is. You run your fingers over him, from delicate tapered tip to base, teasing at the swell of the sensitive globes studding his bulge at the root. He growls, the throaty rumble making your nook clench so sudden and hard that you near double over.

“If you don’t get your fuckin move on, motherfucker mine, we’re gonna see how strong these cuffs are all to being,” he snarls, teeth bared and prickles of horror marching down your spine.

You pay it no mind. “They’re strong enough,” you answer absently, absorbed in teasing at the opening of his nook with a knuckle. Your lips twist in a smirk as the engorged filaments just inside him try to draw you in. (Anyway the cuffs _ are _ strong enough- they hold you just fine.)

That sense of creeping menace surges, and with it the sudden mortal certainty that the shadows are seething and _hungry. _You shudder and Gamzee grins at you, tugging pointedly at the cuffs, and the fear on you tries to whisper that he’ll break loose, any minute now, and _who knows what he’ll do… _Then you fit your mouth over his bulge, flickering your tongue into the sensitive ripples at the tip, and the psychic pressure goes flatter than a calm sea. You chuckle with your mouth still on him and he makes a strangled noise, straining at the cuffs as a sharp wash of pre-spill coats your tongue. You pull off of him and he whines, rolling his hips while his bulge twists helplessly.

“Think I can make you beg for it?” you ask, showing your teeth. 

You don’t know how _ you’re _not begging for it, and you’re not even cuffed. You can’t quite make yourself stop playin with him, though, keeping his attention riveted on you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters, even though you’ve drenched the platform where you’re sitting and your nook is agonizingly empty. Sometimes you think this is even better than the actual pailing part, before you dismiss that as sentimental hogwash unbecomin of the naval aristocracy.

(Is it still sadism when you’re torturin yourself too? Inquirin minds want to know.)

He just looks at you, stricken wordless for the first time, and you slide a finger down along the edge of his nook, not doing more than skimming the inside. He chirps and whimpers and rolls his hips pleadingly. It’s almost good enough for you, but not quite. You resume working his bulge too, groaning at how easily your fingers slide, imagining what that thick, textured length will feel like inside you, and he sobs out a harsh breath, jerking so suddenly in your hands that you catch him with the edge of a claw.

His eyes go wide and he shoves harder against you, snarling triumphantly as his nook swallows your first finger to the base, and shuddering again when you _ know _ he caught more than just the edge of a claw inside. Shit, that’s hardcore, you’ve gotta hand it to him. He works himself on you and you can feel his nook clenching around your finger, trying to draw it deeper into him. You want to give him more, reach inside and curl until he screams for you, but you don’t keep your claws pailing-room short and filed and that’s damage you’re not willing to inflict without cause, and ‘he’ll probably orgasm himself to death’ ain’t cause enough to satisfy you. 

Your lust-fogged pan lands on a compromise and you set the tip of one claw against the curve of one of his globes. The satisfied rattle you have rolling through your chest gets so loud you can feel your fangs hum with it as you watch him descend to quivering almost-stillness, his whole body one glorious arc of tension, eyes wide on yours, and then he chokes out, “Please please please motherfuck do it, _ do it! _” and rolls against you. 

Then you are on top of him and watching him trill as his bulge slams into you to the root, his head thrown back and eyes slammed shut like you killed him and you’re makin sounds like you’re dying as your nook clenches and ripples around him. You don’t care, you’ll die happy. Your bulge is curling deeper into him and he’s fluttering around you in a way that’s gotta be illegal Empire-wide and you’re taking him apart and you’re falling apart and everything is slick heat and sucking pressure and generally good and right with the world.

You can’t track the progression of you working your way into his depths, all lost in the snarling heat of _ yes, more _ and _ mine _ burning in the deepest part of you, but he has his legs locked around your back and is snarling like he’ll tear your throat out if you think of pulling away, rocking you in the sweet arc of his hips as he twists into your nook, filling you and squirming against every ridge and hollow of you. The swell of his globes rolls against the sensitive structures just inside you, brushing over and over as you clutch at him. You are lashing and coiling inside him with each pass he makes, dimly aware of the continuous stream of gasps and him keening like a pailvid star- oh wait, no, that’s you- and that he’s muttering at you nonstop, most of it unintelligible.

What you _ do _ catch of it is utterly filthy. You punish (encourage) him by taking your teeth to his miniature fins, nipping and licking along the delicate fringe, and he croaks something about gods and messiahs and who the fuck even knows what else as he coils inside you, a ripple traveling from the base of his bulge to a flick at the end that caresses your seedflap and nearly does you in right there. You are seeing stars and quaking around him, and you barely recognize your voice as you rasp in his ear, “Darlin dear, isn’t that _ blasphemy? _”

He stutters, surges inside you, and spills, a wordless cry of outrage on his lips. You want to kiss him, swallow that fury down, but you’re too slow, fuck drunk as you are. You trill instead, full-throated and shameless as you feel the deep aching stretch as he fills you, grinning at his echoing cry. Taut with slurry, you flicker across the edge once, twice, teetering on the aching edge of not quite enough and too much when you flick across the firm boundary of his seedflap one last time and catch. His hungry nook works you in a rippling grasp that makes you keen again, sealed globes-deep inside him and filling him with your color until you are wrung dry.

Gamzee shifts under you while you’re still staring into the middle distance, processing the heavy fullness of still being locked together and full of slurry. It unbalances you, knocks you down to sprawl over his chest. You consider forcing yourself up again just to show him up, but he’s surprisingly comfortable, and enjoying the lazy post-pailing glow sounds better just now. You cant your head to do a halfassed hornlock with him and he snorts, shrugging you away from his horns.

Experience tells you that you will be parched to the point of misery before too long, but just for now… just for now, this is perfect. In a fit of magnanimity you even reach up and tickle the cuffs into letting him loose. He lets his arms settle around you, and the last bits of tension go out of his thorax. It’s quiet, with no sound other than the two of you breathing.

<3< <3 <3< <3 <3<

“Heyyyy Dualscar.”

You jerk out of your doze at the drawl and narrow your eyes at the suspiciously pitch harmonics you hear buzzing in his rumblespheres. You don’t even bother to insist on your full title, much less reinitiate hostilities; you like the cut of this young clown’s jib, much as it pains you to say it of one of his ilk. You might even try this again sometime.

“Vwhat,” you answer, exhausted and all of your bilabial approximants warbling and catching all over the place.

He grabs your horn, dragging your head up just enough so you can see him slide you a half-painted grin. You can see trouble coming, even if you’re too relaxed to do much about it just yet. He draws his teeth down on his bottom lip like he’s tryin for sultry (and missin by a nautical mile, you’re still full and not up for bein seduced for- well, at least not till you’ve gotten rehydrated and somethin to eat.)

Wait, he’s sayin somethin.

“Fffffishbitch.”

“… I’m gonna fuckin _ drowvn _ you.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm pretty sure I've caught all of the formatting weirdness that happened after I posted this, but a blessing on your head to anyone that catches something I missed and lets me know about it!


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